I awoke this morning unable to move so I lowered myself out of my pit, yelling a bit, and transferred myself to the floor where I remained until my fucking back had re-aligned to it’s default position. I did a few rudimentary exercises and am now mobile to a certain extent, enough to come into the office anyway. Don’t expect any cartwheels.

Last night wasn’t dissimilar to the previous, I headed up to town on the tube, a journey I actually enjoy these days because it gives me time to absorb myself in my book, and met up with Harry in the pub on Monmouth Street. He and I then took ourselves to the Charlotte street Hotel to meet Bob who was over from Paris on a shoot. I chuckled when a group of tourists asked me to take their photo with Bob stood next to me, obviously I offered him the gig, he politely refused, he’d been at it all day photographing lingerie models the poor sod, one of which was Bruce Willis latest squeeze –he’s having dinner with him and her tonight.

Harry, Bob his entourage of stylists, make-up artists and assistants and yours truly went off to Busaba on Store Street for dinner. After a short queue we were in, we ordered and ate. The food here is exceptional, though not in gut tearing quantities and we picked around each other’s plates chatting away. Bob kindly took care of bill and after a bunch of farewells I was sitting on a packed tube heading south.

There must have been something in the water last night. In addition to being packed solid at 11.20pm on a Thursday night it was rammed full of less than attractive couples eager to get home and fuck each other. To my right a bubble-faced twat was flirting with her estate agent looking twit of a boyfriend seated opposite, she was kicking her chubby legs up and writhing and giggling and pouting all erotic like, he reciprocated by waggling his tongue at her and winking like he’d a fucking tick, I glared at him with violent intensity for acting in a manner not befitting an English gentleman and he deceased his prick-led idiocy at once. To my left some dreadful harridan was stood with her gunt inches from my head chewing the face off some teenage Johnny, every so often she’d pause to hiss bedroom words into his shell-like ear, I could practically hear her fallopian tubes flapping.

Right, the very edited Friday list -its getting worse I swear- and a popular tune, Oh, before I go the Moto GP starts this weekend, I’m pathetically exited about it so I hope, like me, you’ll all be tuning in on Sunday afternoon to cheer James Toseland to victory on his debut…